The young lad stared at the large stone structure in front of him. It lay like an old man on a hill, moss clinging to the base like a straggly beard with vines of ivy twisting up the pitted and scarred walls. A forest of trees surrounded it like a great army defending its citadel.

A smile inched across his face. Weeks of traveling by ship and he had finally arrived. His smile only grew the longer he took in the view. Even the gloomy drizzle could not lower his spirits. Years he had waited, setting sail the moment he was able to do so, though his mamá did not want to let him go. “The world is so big, hijo. Stay with me. Do not make me worry so.” But he had to make the journey. It was something he had longed to do for as far back as he could remember. He could not be swayed to stay. He’d promised her he would send word by courier the moment he’d landed at port, and so he had. I am well, Mamá. Do not worry. I have made my destination and I am safe.

He adjusted his bag over his shoulder, shifting the weight to his other side, inhaled a deep breath, and took a step forward. Soon his steps quickened, each one feeling monumental. By the time he passed through the entryway, he was full of excitement. His first time away from home on his own, a dream come true, a promise to himself fulfilled—it was all he could do to keep it contained within.

“May I be of assistance?” a monk asked, approaching from an expansive corridor on the right.

Sliding his hands over the straps of his bag nervously, he spoke in a thick Castilian accent, “Sí. I am here to see the abbot, Searly.”

“I shall let him know he has a visitor,” the monk said, bowing gently at the waist. “May I have your name, sir?”

This time when the young man smiled, it was with his whole face, and as brilliant as a flower bursting out of winter earth. “Favián,” he said. “Tell him his nephew is here.”

Searly leaned forward, staring into the cup he held in his hands. A slight drizzle of rain had descended upon the land, forcing the light of the sun to stretch and yawn its way through the clouds. The library appeared gray and colorless until Lochlan lit a lantern, an arc of gold against the dreariness. “What do you mean—twins?” Searly asked.

Lochlan reclined back into his chair, tracing the arm of it with his fingertips. “I have no more information than that. Zeph left immediately after.”

“Where did he go?”

“I don’t know.” Lochlan stood and walked over to a shelf, plucking a book from it, flipping it open. “I’ve contemplated finding him. I want to know where he is for my own peace of mind.”

“Why have you not?”

Lochlan closed the book and placed it back on the shelf. “Elin asked me not to.” His words were laced with worriment and underscored with a hint of resentment.

Searly sighed and put the cup to his lips, tasting the bitter wine on his tongue. “How is she?” he asked.

“Confused. Conflicted.”

Searly nodded. “Understandable. And how are you?”

Lochlan ran a finger over the spines of the books in a casual caress. “I suppose I feel the same as she.” Lochlan rarely looked Searly in the eye in moments such as these, afraid to show vulnerability. Foolish man for thinking it a weakness.

“Does Arwyn know?” Searly asked, still watching his friend peruse books that he wasn’t truly seeing.

“Do I know what?”

“Saints in Heaven, child.” Searly clasped a hand over his heart, feeling the rapid beat against his palm. “How long have you been standing there?”

“I was on my way back to my room when I heard my name.” Stepping further into the library, Arwyn asked, “Do I know what?”

“Why are you carrying a bow?” Lochlan asked.

Searly took notice then. Arwyn was dressed in all leather: boots, breeches, and a jerkin with a white linen tunic underneath. In one gloved hand she carried a bow, a leather guard on her forearm. And on her hip, a quiver.

“I was practicing my…” she paused and said primly, “never mind that. What were you discussing?”

Lochlan let out a sigh. “Arwyn, perhaps you would like to sit.”

She leaned her bow and quiver against the wall. “No. I’d rather stand. What is it?” She looked to Lochlan, then to Searly. “Tell me.”

“Zeph left early this morning,” Lochlan stated.

“What? Why? Where did he go?”

Lochlan filled Arwyn in on the details of what had taken place, and Arwyn seemed to be handling it well. That is, until she sat, stood, and sat again as if she was at war with her own mind.

“He must be…” Her words trailed off.

Searly set his wine aside, moved toward her, and kneeled. It was a natural instinct for him to offer a comforting hand, and was about to do so when he promptly remembered the last time he’d been in this position. He kept his hands in his lap. “Finish your thought, child.”

“Upset,” she said. “He must be upset.” She stood in a flourish, the heel of her boots slapping hard against the floor.

“Where are you going?” Lochlan called.

“To find him,” she called back.

Neither one tried to stop her. Pointless it would be. Arwyn was on a mission where Zeph was concerned, and if Searly had learned anything about the lovely elf girl, it was that she had her own mind and it was mostly led by her heart.

A long silence befell the library. Searly and Lochlan were both trapped in their own thoughts before Xavier knocked to alert them to his presence.

“My apologies, brother. Someone is here to see you.”

“Do you know who it is?”

“Favián, he said his name was. Your nephew?”

“Favián? He’s here?”

“Aye.”

Xavier stepped back, gesturing for someone to come forward. Favián crossed the threshold. Searly stared unabashedly, trying to rectify the last image he’d had of his brother’s son, a chubby-cheeked babe, to the image before him now. He was brown of hair and skin and eyes, his face broad and high-boned, like his father’s. Searly gaped at him…taking in the sight of him.

“Saints in Heaven,” Searly said softly.

Favián’s feet carried him forward, his eyes shining with a misty haze as he set his bag on the floor. “Tío,” he said in a choked whisper.

Searly met the young lad halfway and embraced him firmly. “I wasn’t expecting you,” he said, his voice quivering like wheat in a light summer wind. “Did I miss one of your missives?”

“No. I wanted to surprise you.”

“You succeeded.” Searly pulled back just enough to see his nephew’s face. “Gracious, you are a grown man now.”

“Sí, Tío Searly.”

Searly loved his nephew deeply. He was family and they shared a bond. As soon as Favián had been old enough, Searly had arranged for him to attend a monastery school, where he was taught to read and write in multiple languages. They had fostered a relationship through letters, both sharing an affinity for poetry, though Favián’s affinity surpassed even Searly’s. This, of course, was something Favián kept private, only confiding in Searly his love of them. Favián’s father, Joran, was a warrior, a man-at-arms, who had served his king when called upon. Growing up with Joran meant learning to fight, and from the letters, he was quite good, though Searly suspected he was better than he let on.

“An introduction, Searly?”

Searly turned his head toward his friend, his expression ever so inquisitive. “Oh, yes, Favián, allow me to introduce you to Lord Lochlan, my friend and my family, the one I’ve written to you about. Lochlan, meet Favián, my nephew from Ontiverós.”

Lochlan bowed his head slightly. “Pleased to meet you, Favián. So, you’re the nephew Searly wrote to.”

“Sí,” Favián said, casting his eyes to the floor. “Tío Searly and I have been writing letters since—”

“Since you were a wee lad,” Searly finished, clapping his hands over Favián’s cheeks. “I cannot shake the surprise of seeing you. Come, sit.” Searly moved swiftly, leading Favián by the elbow to a chair. “Tell me, how are your parents? Your mother is well, yes? And your father?”

“Mis padres are well. They send their love.”

Xavier, still lingering in the doorway, asked, “Shall I prepare a room for you? Will you be staying?”

“Yes, he will be staying,” Searly answered quickly, in case Favián had other ideas. He would put that little matter to rest at once. “Prepare the room across from Arwyn’s. Thank you, Xavier.”

“Certainly,” Xavier said, leaving the three of them alone.

To Favián, Searly asked, “Are you tired, my boy? Were the seas rough? Have you eaten? I shall have a bath drawn as soon as possible so you may freshen up.”

Favián laughed. “I fear you have replaced mamá with all the fussing. I am perfectly well. A bit tired, I admit. But, mostly, I am happy to see you.”

“Searly is a bit of a mother hen, I’m afraid. You will get used to it.” With a grin, Lochlan added, “He is an acquired taste.”

“Never mind him,” Searly said, the light still twinkling behind his eyes. “It is a rule of mine that anyone under my care is well fed and well rested. My only rules, but I daresay I strictly enforce them.”

“Your only rules?” Lochlan quipped.

Searly cut his eyes to the hulking brute, dressed in black from head to toe. “You are in rare form, milord. It’s nice to see you in a chipper mood. Even if it is at my expense.”

“Am I?” Lochlan seemed to ponder that a moment. Then, looking to Favián, he asked, “Do you intend to stay long? I know your uncle would like that very much.”

“I intend to stay for a while, sí. If that is all right with you, tío.”

Searly waved away his concern. “Try to leave and I’ll have Lochlan hold you down.”

Favián lifted a brow, amusement in his features; however, Favián was a polite lad and chose to answer as a proper gentleman. “It is settled, then. If you show me to my room, I would like that bath you mentioned earlier.”

The air was damp, trees veiled in the lightest of mists, smothering the greens of the leaves and the brush underneath until all that was left was the same stony gray as the nebulous vault above.

Arwyn’s worried eyes scanned the edge of the woodland, searching for Zeph. She wasn’t a hunter like her brothers had been. She couldn’t kill a wild animal and bring home supper. But she could close her eyes and sense the world around her. She could listen to nature and understand its sounds. She could press the palm of her hand to a tree and feel its energy, absorb it into herself. “One with nature,” her father had told her. She could even feel energy and emotions at a distance, though she had to make a conscious effort to do so if the distance was great. When she was little, her father often worried about her. As an empath, Arwyn was hypersensitive to everything, and when she was much younger she would cry every day and then she cried never, withdrawing from everyone around her, trying to distance herself from all that plagued her until her father taught her how to gain control over her ability. He, too, had been an empath, and so, he trained her in how to deal with all the emotions that threatened to drown her by teaching her the art of archery.

Nyokou, her father called it, the pursuit of truth, goodness, and beauty. “It is where attitude, movement, and technique unite in a state of harmony. A true shot in Nyokou is not just the arrow meeting its intended target. It is the belief the arrow existed in the target before its release.” Courtesy, compassion, and non-aggression, these things her father also taught her, for a proper archer retained her composure and grace even in times of great stress. Goodness was shown by displaying proper behavior and respect at all times. And then there was beauty which enhanced life and stimulated the spirit. The elegance of the bow, the artistry of the arrow, were both beautiful, though her father considered truth and goodness to be the beauty of the art.

Before Arwyn’s fifteenth summer, she could shoot an arrow as sure and true as the master who’d trained her—her father. Archery, for her, had not been about mastering a weapon. It was about physical, moral, and spiritual development.

“Through repetition,” her father would say, “one’s true self-perfection emerges.”

He taught her how to position herself: the bow in her left hand at the grip, placed on her hip, the string facing outward, and the arrow in her right, a standing meditation if you will, with her back straight, shoulders flat, and elbows flared out to the sides. She had to shed all strife, and when she moved, she had to be pure of heart and mind. Each step she took had to be graceful and deliberate. No unnecessary movement, and each action taken served a specific purpose.

“A river is calm on the surface, quiet, unassuming, but underneath a tremendous power is hidden deep within its depths.”

Even though Arwyn had left her bow behind at the monastery, she moved as though she held it, in the midst of silence and practiced control. If one was to spy her, one may think she was performing a meditative dance. Or perhaps, they would simply presume she was mad. Most, she imagined, would not understand her methods.

“Streams may appear powerful because they are loud and rebellious, but underneath they are shallow and wield no real powers.”

Her father had had three sons—and her, teaching them all the skill of Nyokou from the tender age of seven, although he had spent particular care with her. “The control of the breath and mind generates power, Arwyn, a cessation of thought. It is the final emptying of the mind as the arrow is released.”

Two hours every day, he taught her how to shoot an arrow and meet its mark. Then two hours became three—three became four. “Practicing technique improves the shooting, but improving the spirit improves the man.”

“Or woman,” she would say.

“Yes, or woman,” he would answer.

The slightest smile touched the corner of her mouth as she mentally prepared her bow and concentrated on her target, emptying her mind of all things except him. This was how she would find him. Nyokou taught her how to ignore the noise of the world, allowing her to focus on just the things she needed to, and what she needed was to find Zeph.

She released her mental arrow, finding her mark. She may not be a hunter, not in the usual sense, but her aim was always true. She sensed him, some distance away. His pain was an itch underneath Arwyn’s skin, like a burn trying to heal. Sometimes, if she was deeply connected to another, it was impossible to tell where her feelings began and theirs ended. They crowded out her own until all she felt were theirs. Like now. She leaned against a tree, needing to take a moment to meditate, control her ability before it took control of her.

“Breathe,” she murmured. “Just breathe.”

“Sometimes you will hit the target but miss the self. Find yourself in the target, Arwyn. Posture, balance, and stillness. Clear the mind, release the energy.”

She inhaled deeply and let it out slowly. Each time she exhaled, she regained her balance. She did this until she felt sure she had her abilities under control, and then she continued making her way toward him.

The scent of rain still hung in the air, but the sun’s amber glow managed to punch its way through, golden fingers slanted through the trees. Its warmth was an elixir after an age of grayness. Birds sang out, softening the air with their chorus, gently waking the woodlands from its nap. Then shards of light descended, highlighting a path before her. She followed its winding curves, careful to dodge the sharp points of branches that protruded her path. It led her straight to a clearing where a river cut through the forest. That was when she saw him, sitting alone, near the water’s edge. She couldn’t help her heart from quickening. A few long, white strands of hair had fallen from his neat queue at the base of his neck, softening the sharp line of his jaw. He sat, staring at the water, dominated by a profound sadness, fatigue engraved on his face. No longer could Arwyn see that spark of fire in his eyes. All that remained was a hollow soul.

Hand to her heart, she rubbed the spot where it ached, blinking several times to keep her composure. She waited the time she needed, then she spoke when she was sure her voice wouldn’t betray her. “May I sit?”

Without even turning his head, Zeph answered, “If you must.”

“Did you know I was—”

“I always know when you are near, Arwyn.”

Oh. She didn’t know quite what to say to that, so she said nothing. She took her seat beside him and turned her gaze to the river before them, a ribbon of turquoise winding its way through a land she knew very little about. It flowed like time, always onward, toward its destiny, and as she watched eddies swirl and disappear, she wondered what her destiny was. She didn’t know. She hadn’t known anything with any certainty since the day she was robbed of her family. She was adrift, alone, and afraid of losing something she never truly had. Her mouth pulled into a frown, scolding herself for such thoughts.

Zeph shuffled something in his hand. Five small round pieces were tossed in the air. Flipping his hand over, he caught two on the back of his hand. He put one aside and kept the other. He tossed it again, picked up two of the three objects that had hit the ground and caught the other still in the air. Putting two aside, he threw another into the air, picked up the remaining object on the ground, and caught the one he’d tossed again. Then he repeated the process.

“What are you doing?”

“Baking a pie.”

“Ha. Ha. Perhaps when you get bored here, you could try for the position as court jester.”

“I don’t think they would be fond of my particular brand of jokes.”

Arwyn’s mouth twitched. “I’m sure you’re right.”

“If I had a quill, I would write down the date.”

“What for?”

“I don’t believe you have ever said I was right about anything.”

“That’s not true. Whenever you call yourself a fool, I always agree.”

A sliver of a smile etched across his mouth, and Arwyn basked in it until it disappeared from view. “So, what are you doing?”

He shrugged. “Playing a game.”

“And what are those?” she asked, pointing to the objects in his hand.

He flattened his palm, lining them up in a neat row; all five pieces were shiny and varied in size and color. “Polished stones.”

“They’re beautiful. Where did you get them?”

He stared at the stones like they were jewels. “I’ve had them since I was a boy. Elin and I used to play with them,” he said, a trembling edge to his voice.

“Oh.” The sadness of his words made her heart tender, but she refused to look away from him. Too many others had looked away from him already.

Clearing his throat, he said, “Hold out your hand.” She did. He placed the smooth stones in her hand, not missing the way his fingers gently grazed the tender part of her palm. She had to bite the inside of her cheek, not letting on she could feel his pain burn through her like hot embers. “I’ll teach you the rules,” he said.

“All right.”

“You can use only one hand. Toss the stones up. You want to catch as many as you can on the back of your hand. It’s easier to catch them if you spread your fingers a little. Toss them up again from the back of your hand, turn your hand over quickly and catch them in your palm. Choose one of the stones to be your taw—the one you throw in the air. Put aside the others you caught. Repeat the steps until you’ve caught them all.”

“All right.” Arwyn cleared her throat. She followed his instructions. She managed to catch two on the back of her hand. Putting one aside, she tossed the taw and managed to pick up the other three pieces and catch the one she’d tossed before it hit the ground. “I won!” she declared rather excitedly.

She saw it, the way the corner of his mouth curled up the tiniest bit, but he said nothing. No compliments. No encouraging words.

For the next few minutes she played with the stones, and for the next few minutes, Zeph watched. She tried not to let that fluster her, concentrating entirely on her task. Surprisingly, she found she rather liked this game. She managed to forget the world for a brief time. Perhaps that was what he had been doing too—forgetting the world.

After the fifth round, she scooped up the stones and handed them back. He took them, cleaning off the dirt and dust before placing them inside a small drawstring pouch, then tucking it inside his pocket. Silence stretched and lengthened into something that seemed impossible to pull away from. It was an entity unto its own. Cruel in the way it bared down on her already bruised heart, threatening to dismantle all her well-crafted aloofness. She wanted to pop the bubble that found its way into her throat, suffocating her, and shout at him—shout at the whole damned world for this…this…

And then she remembered why she’d never left Shadowland all those years ago.

“Stay,” she murmured.

“Arwyn,” he hissed, “don’t.”

“No,” she said. “That was what you said to me a long time ago. I tried to leave Shadowland once. Do you remember? You found me before I could. And you said, ‘Stay.’”

She had wanted to leave, needing to go back to her home and give her family a proper burial. After that, she hadn’t known what she would do; she only knew staying and hiding felt wrong, so she had attempted to leave, uncertain about telling Zeph. She was going to slip away unseen, but he’d slipped out of the shadows, as though he’d been waiting for her. She remembered his words clearly, so she repeated them.

“You wanted me to stay. I asked you to give me a reason why I should, and you said, ‘Because I’m asking. Because out there I can’t keep you safe.’ I stayed, Zeph. I stayed. Because for some reason you needed me to and I needed to be needed. I never got to bury my family, Zeph. It has always troubled me.” Arwyn stood abruptly and walked closer to the water’s edge. Her father’s words whispered in her ear. “If the spirit is strong, one will appear like a deep flowing river.”

“I am a river,” she whispered to herself. “I am a river.”

“Can you give me a reason to stay?” he asked quietly. “I have many reasons why I should go.” She felt his presence at her back, then he faced her, his eyes settling on hers, those unfathomable colorless eyes that she always got lost in whenever she stared too long. “Can you give me one reason why I should stay?”

Me, her heart whispered, but she knew that was not the answer he sought. “Your sister loves you. She is angry with you, yes, but she loves you.” Thinking of her brothers, her father, her mother, the hurt she kept deep inside bubbled to the surface. She shook her head. “You have an opportunity I will never have. If you walk away from her, you will regret it. It will eat you alive. Do not let your past ruin your future, Zeph. Do not let it.”

He chuffed. “Future.”

“Yes, future. Lochlan brought you back to life. You have a—”

“This isn’t a life, Arwyn! This is existing!”

“This is a second chance! And you’re wasting it!” She stepped into his space, jamming her finger into his chest. “I told you…I told you—” She cut off her words, her emotions or his emotions clogging her throat. I told you I would try to heal you.

She had to walk away for a moment. It was too much. She would drown in everything if she didn’t let some of it go, so she leaned against a tree and cried the tears he refused to cry. And damn him for making her cry.

Forever went by before either of them spoke. Finally, she broke the stalemate. “Don’t leave,” she pleaded, finding her voice again.

“You don’t understand,” he said, gripping his hair by the roots. “Nobody does.”

“Then make me understand.”

He laughed. It was cold and callous. “Look at me!” he yelled, thumping himself hard on the chest. “Look at me! What do you see?”

“I see more than you could possibly imagine.”

He scoffed, shaking his head like she was daft. Opening his arms wide, he asked, “What then...do you see?”

“Currently, an impertinent fool.”

His lips curled upward a fraction. “You wound me, darling.”

She marched toward him, her boots pounding hard against the earth. His eyes were like glaciers as they locked on hers. Slowly, the ice in them began to melt as they drifted lower, to her mouth.

“What is it you think I do not see?” she asked. “Your shadows? The darkness within you? I may not understand how they manifest, but I know they exist. I know they are a part of you. And I am not afraid of you.”

“You should be,” he croaked.

“It is only at night that we can see the stars, Zeph. Darkness doesn’t have to be scary. It can be beautiful. You have just forgotten.”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Would I…” Her words died on her tongue as something sharp pierced her, causing her to lurch forward. A burning sensation rent through her right shoulder. Blood spilled down her arm. Her eyes were wide and frightened when Zeph caught her in his arms. “Zeph? What’s happening?”

The look in his eyes was fear and anger. Together, those two emotions collided in an epic maelstrom when he peered over Arwyn’s head and saw who or what had shot her with an arrow. Zeph let out a roar so loud that the ground rumbled beneath them. Holding Arwyn firm with one arm, he launched one, two, three giant fireballs with the other.

All Arwyn could hear was the wailing cry of a creature before Zeph turned it into ashes. She was losing consciousness. The world was fading fast.

“Arwyn, stay with me. Stay with me, Arwyn.” Zeph broke off the shaft of the arrow, keeping the tip inside, lest she bleed out before he could heal her. “I have to get you back to the monastery. I can’t heal you here. Others may be coming. Stay with me.” He scooped up her legs and cradled her to his chest, his perfectly white attire now stained red with her blood.

“T-Turn into sh-shadows,” Arwyn murmured, teeth chattering. “H-Hurry.”

The next sounds Arwyn heard were the crashing of a door and Zeph yelling, “She’s hurt! Arwyn’s hurt! A poisoned arrow!”

Arwyn surrendered to the darkness soon after.